Saturday, July 23, 2011

One of Jacques Brel's best songs is "Fils de" ("Sons of" or "Children of"), but it is badly served by a famous but crude translation by Eric Blau and Mort Shuman that takes liberties and introduces lines that are not in the original at all, which loses the gentleness and subtlety of the original.

And here, with a few obvious corrections by me, is a heroic attempt by Google page translator to render it, which to me feels better than the standard "Sons of" translation mentioned above, though I only have a few words of half-remembered school French to work with. As you can see there is no mention of "Sons of the sinner, sons of the saint / Who is the child with no complaint", which is actually a pretty good couple of lines but not from Brel's lyric! (No?) Nor is there any "Some built roads ... some went to war .. some never returned", which is a terrible liberty that changes the emphasis from the original where the key image is the little empire of childhood, "a dead bird" and other little things, no grand bluster.

Another thing to remember when thinking about this is that in French, the plural of a word that has masculine and feminine (fils, fille) takes the masculine. So "fils de" in French not only means "sons of" but also "children of". [Update: I have been corrected about this in the comments below, qv!] There is almost that sense available in English too, if you think you can bend it into the same collective sense whereby "man" is sometimes used in a gender inclusive way.

Sons of the bourgeois or sons of Apostles All of the children are like your own. Sons of the Caesar or of nothing, All children are like yours. The same smile, the same tears The same fears, the same sighs. Sons of the Caesar or of nothing, All children are like yours. It was not till after, a long time after... But son of the Sultan, son of Fakir, All children have an empire Under golden arches, thatched All children have a kingdom A corner wave, a flower that trembles A dead bird that looks like themSon of Sultan, son of Fakir, All children have an empire. It was not till after, a long time after... But the son of a good son or son of a stranger All children are sorcerers. Son of love, son of love affairs, All children are poets. They are shepherds, they are kings, Are the clouds to fly better But the son of a good son or son of a stranger All children are sorcerers, It was not till after, a long time after... But the sons of bourgeois or sons of apostles All children are like yours. Son of the Caesar or of nothing, All children are like yours. The same smile, the same tears The same fears, the same sighs. Son of the son of Caesar or nothing, All children are like yours.

A challenge to somebody to produce a poetic translation in keeping with the original instead of the mawkish Blau/Shuman effort from "Jacques Brel is Alive and Well and Living in Paris".
Footnote: The above is as nothing compared to the abominable "Seasons in the Sun" (Terry Jacks), which bears no relation to Brel's brilliant lyrics for "Le Moribond", doesn't even try, only shares the tune - and even ruins that too.

Monday, July 18, 2011

Overnight, changed rooms, left the other three and got a room of my own. Getting ready to go out for dinner but in the mirror, somebody else smiled back at first. Got a helluva fright. That was bad enough but rat scurrying across and under the bed was too much. Decided to leave early. It was only half twelve and lunch wasn't till one. So I had the street to myself down behind the school.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

Overnight I met Ringo Starr at an event in a crowded shoe shop. Got a chance to talk with him sitting on one of those low benches (for trying on shoes). I told him people really liked his voice. I suggested he release his own version of Hey Jude in time for the Christmas market. He wasn't paying much attention.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Life is a canal on which we are narrow boats with no reverse gear. Each night, each sleep, is a lock. We enter the lock and the water of yesterday is released. Afterwards we emerge into tomorrow, to another gated day. Above us and behind that again, behind that and above again lie the days gone by. Ahead only one day, its prospect, its gate, its fall. Gone the hundreds, hail the one. Oh lucky swans.